A Matter Of Time
by d i n o b o t
Summary: Past, present and future moments surrounding Sam and Freddie's relationship. When two people have chemistry, only one other ingredient is needed... Timing. Ten noncontinuous one-shots/drabbles, various genres, suggestions welcome, all Seddie.
1. Awake

**So, fellow Seddie Warriors, what's the prescribed treatment for prolonged droughts of new iCarly episodes and a bittersweet breakup? Why, Seddie drabbles, of course! I'm planning to do fifty or so. I'll play it by ear.**

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><p><strong>Awake<strong>

It was already tomorrow.

_Briinngg_ went his Pear Phone, signifying an incoming message. Sending texts at midnight are ordinarily ill advised, but this particular night found him wide awake in his room and he welcomed the diversion to staring at his ceiling. Her name read across the screen, and immediately something as random and inconsiderate as texting someone in the middle of the night made sense, unearthing a seldom smile.

**You awake?**

_I am now,_ was his reply back, and in hindsight, wondered if his tone tilted more sarcastically or annoyed. And as soon as his mind settled on an answer, another incoming alert broke the concentration.

**I can't sleep.**

He held up his phone with both hands and angled it to his face, thumbs already tapping away in response.

_Why can't you sleep, Sam?_

Almost instantly—like she already knew his response, or didn't care what it was—her reply came, brought forth by the _Briinngg_ of his text alert, and made he it a point to turn down the volume.

**Why couldn't Jason and Amber make it work? It makes no freakin sense!**

He sighed, a soft one, for he could almost hear the irritation in her voice, like it was somehow attached to her message, rounding out her anger.

_Seriously_?—he scoffed as he wrote—_That's what's keeping you up? Our book report for English Class? What's really bothering you?_

Unlike the others, her reply didn't come right away, like his words had pierced her deeply inside and she wanted to end the conversation right then and there. As unintentional as it was though, he still was warranted a reply, after all, she started it.

Finally, like it was pried out, her message made its way to his phone.

**What, I can't be concerned with a school project?**

He thought for a quick second before replying with:_ would be the first time_.

**Well I am**—she wrote back, seconds later—**It's obvious they like each other, but they let everything else get in the way, and they didn't end up together!**

"What?" he said aloud. _How do you know that? We're only on chapter 3._

**I read the whole thing already**, was the obvious plot back, and was followed immediately by, **You know I'm right**.

_I know,_ he texted back, hoping she caught his candor. _Just leave it alone.  
><em>

**How can I? It's the worst ending ever! It's total chizz!**

And before he could text back, a second scathing response bombarded his inbox accompanied by another irritating _Briinngg,_ just in case the message wasn't interrupting enough.

**This book sucks! You suck for choosing it!**

He sighed, rubbing his blood shot eyes. How was this possible? How was it—at 12:30 in the morning—he was having an argument with Sam Puckett? This was one for the record books. Cross this scenario off the Puckett/Benson record keeper list.

It wasn't just the argument though. It had to be tonight—this night—just a day after a bittersweet moment in the Shay's elevator, where submissions, explanations and realizations all melded into one truth, one answer, and one begrudging yet mutual choice. And even though the memory of them rushing back into that elevator—with two and a half more hours borrowed on their side—was still fresh in his mind, replacing it so quickly with a meaningless clash like this didn't sit well with him. In fact, it made him sick.

_There's another book._

**What?**

_The author. He made a sequel._

**What happens next?**

_I don't know! I haven't read it yet!_

He surrendered. He was done. He had already placed his phone face down on his night stand and turned the opposite way. For the first time that night he shut his eyes and they stayed closed. In just a few more hours the day would start, and he would go back to his boring monotonous life—full of midterms and server redundancy backups—and maybe those few weeks of love and reciprocation would soon be swept under that giant rug in the sky. Out of sight. Out of mind.

But the resounding end to their conversation was suffixed by another _Briinngg._ He twitched and cursed himself for paying $1.99 for such a commonplace tone.

He picked up his phone. He was glad he did.

**I'm sorry. So this isn't the end?**

Her words were surprisingly sincere, and they made him regret his earlier outburst. Calmly, he tapped the appropriate keys and pressed send, this time with no anger or bereavement to go with it_._

_No, Sam. It's not._

**Good... thanks.**

_No problem._

He was tired now, and only after sending those last few words did he realize the cause of his insomnia. He wasn't quite sure how to handle the last twenty four hours. Their time together had been like a lone encrypted file on his hard drive, and after its deletion, no trace of it was left to be found. Perhaps their relationship was like a book—one still being discovered. This wasn't the end. There was more to be written. There was still more to the story.

Then he fell asleep. So did her. They had school in just a few hours. After all, it was already tomorrow.


	2. Bike Messenger

**Yes, this is the moment referenced by Sam in 'iDate Sam and Freddie'. Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Bike Messenger<strong>

"So—where's this place supposed to be?" she asked in a way that wasn't really asking at all.

He was supposed to know, but he didn't, and she certainly was no help. Blame it on his inept sense of direction or how every Seattle city block looked identical to each other. He ducked his head in his map again, more of a way to get away from her than try to regain his bearings.

Then with one tug, the map was ripped from his grip, replaced by a wave of golden curls falling over a cool set of blue eyes.

"Hello? Earth to Fredward."

"Cut it out, Sam." He bumped passed her, snatching the now crumpled map back in possession.

She used him like a snow plow—peeking over his shoulders every so often—as he forged his way passed the dozens of people trying to share the skinny sidewalk. Finally, after wiggling into a free area, they stopped at a street corner.

Wadding up the map, he tossed it in a nearby trash can. The container looked like it hadn't been emptied in weeks, and a slimy pile of garbage had already made a tiny mountain sticking out of the rim when the good-for-nothing piece of paper bounced off and littered the street.

"Why don't you just use your phone?"

"No bars," he replied, checking to make sure he was right. "How's yours?"

She fished hers from her front pocket and frowned. "Nope. Nadda."

There they were, on the corner of 154th and Grenada, which didn't mean anything to either of them. Their technology had been rendered useless, and therefore, robbed them of all sense of direction. They had no GPS, no phone service, not even a compass app.

"Just ask someone for directions."

"No," he answered immediately, eying a few people as they walked by. They weren't necessarily rubbing shoulders with the most sophisticated, high-class group of individuals, but asking for directions would just get in the way of his deep rooted pig headed boy pride. And somewhere between the fourth bum and second Wall Street douche that strolled by, he vowed to be lost in this maze of asphalt and concrete forever before stopping to ask for directions.

"Come on, dude. We're gonna be late."

"I know what I'm doing, Sam."

She mimicked his last sentence in her best Freddie voice she could do, but before any further insult could fester in that conniving brain of hers, a bike messenger came down the opposite way. He was a lanky man in skinny jeans, wearing one of those hipster berets with tiny headphones shoved in his ears, listening to what Sam could only imagine was indie rock in its most pretentious form. He was as good a target as any.

One effortless push found Freddie dead in his path, and the man failed to serve in time, catching Freddie by the hip and sent him tumbling to the ground. His head bumped against a fire hydrant and smacked face first on the concrete.

He rolled on the cement in pain, holding his head.

As she saw the blood trickle from his ear, and heard the poor boy moan over the loud city traffic, a strange sensation swept her motionless. There wasn't the usual smile of satisfaction, not even a rare bout of regret. This was something else. This was something new. He looked different. He looked cute.

She knelt down and dabbed his ear with a napkin she found in her pocket.

Their appointment was already lost. They were late anyway. So she forgot the rest of their friends and their lunch plans. For once, she didn't mind if they didn't know where they were going or how long it was going to take. She didn't care, as long as she had this city, out of service cellphones, confusing maps, bike messengers and him.

"So—where's this place supposed to be again?" she grinned, asking in a way that wasn't really asking at all.

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><p><strong>Feel free to suggest a prompt. I doubt I'll be able to do fifty of these on my own.<strong>


	3. Model Trains

**Yep, you got me. I do own iCarly. I plan on doing one more season, a TV movie, and Sam and Freddie getting back together, so now you can all stop worrying. :p  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Model Trains<strong>

"I'm back in!" he shouted, bursting into the room with too much glee for a simple greeting. "I'm in! I'm in! I'm back in!"

Carly looked up from her book. Sam looked up from her plastic fishing rod. He had already donned his conductor's cap, and he beamed with pride as he showed them his redeemed badge, winking in the light. He did a little skip around the water coffee table and dove on the couch next to it.

"Why are you so giddy?" Carly sat up on her bed, placing her math book to the side.

"Yeah," Sam chimed, "Did you finally get your Mom to stop giving you tick baths?" A wet plastic fish dangled at the end of her magnetic line and the water made a shallow splash as she tossed it back.

"Nope. You're not gonna bring me down, Sam. Not this time."

He maintained his grin, spurning Carly to ask, "Well, are you gonna tell us or not?"

"Don't keep us in suspense, Frednub," Sam said, dryly.

He kicked up his legs on the very edge of the table, tucked his hands behind his head and began. "I'm a Training Bro again. My model train club finally accepted me back in! Isn't that great?"

There was a lull, and both Carly and Sam went back to their previous activities, with Carly buried in trigonometry and Sam pretending those fish she was bent on catching for the last hour were edible.

"Well, _I'm_ excited and that's all that matters," he opted out gracefully. "It took me six months. I was beginning to think they were never going to let me back in, thanks to Sam."

"Hey, I gave those nerds some female interaction. God knows they needed it."

Carly stifled a giggle.

"You gave them a heart attack... and two months worth of model building shot to dust with your little stunt!"

"My stunt was the highlight of the meeting," she defended.

Before Carly could stop their burgeoning tiff that would have assuredly turned into a full fledged argument, Freddie sprung from the couch, bid the girls goodbye and left with his dignity in tact before Sam could take a good whack at it. He made another circuit around the room flaunting his joy and exited, ready to share the good news with Spencer and Gibby.

Carly smirked and turned a page, only after making sure he was gone. "Are you ever going to tell him?"

"Nah. It's better if he doesn't know."

"How did you get him back in anyway?"

"Easy. I told those geeks I'd steal their lunch money for the rest of the year if they didn't."

"That it?"

"There may have been a threat of physical abuse in there too."

"Oh, Sam," Carly shook her head, not the slightest bit surprised.

Lies, extortion, secrets and a dancing boy too happy for his own good—none of that mattered. It made him happy, and after all the pride and annoyance was pushed aside, she could admit seeing him this way made her happy too.

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><p><strong>Suggested by asian at the disco 265. I went for a variation. Hope it was up to par.<br>**


	4. Together

**suggested by Wonderstruck.**

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><p><strong>Together<strong>

It was simple. She hated him. She hated the way he dressed, she hated the way he looked and she hated the way he spoke. He was a nerd through and through and everything he did made her want to pound him right into the ground. She could admit though, she felt something different when she pulled away from his lips that night on the balcony of his apartment. It definitely wasn't hate and she dared not to venture what it could be.

It was simple. He hated her. He hated the way she belittled him, he hated when she beat him and he hated how she always thought she was right. He could admit though, if all that anger and resentment was pushed aside, she had the potential to be a really cool person and even possibly his friend.

She never knew what love was—the complexity of it all. She knew the idea of it, the eagerness of it and the yearning for it, but nothing more. Her understanding was like a single brushstroke on a much larger, much more detailed painting, and no matter how hard she tried couldn't make it equal to the majestic sum of its parts.

He thought he knew what love was, in all of its many complexities. He had read every book, looked up every definition and accessed every website pertinent on the subject. He thought he was ready, he thought he was prepared but this summation of knowledge was pitifully dwarfed by the truth, like a lone grain of sand towered by a mountain.

To her their relationship was like a bolt of lightning, flashing for a brilliant second only to vanish in that same moment, never to be seen in the same spot again. In that tumultuous moment, somewhere buried beneath all the fighting and name calling, was the single treasure of reciprocation, and she held onto it for as long as she could.

To him their relationship was a breath of fresh air, as if he had been underwater his whole life begging for some semblance of reciprocity. And when his lungs sucked in the air that had been tightly wound in hers when she kissed him unexpectedly one night, he finally could taste what being one half of a whole really meant and refused to let it go.

It was hard to keep pretending like everything was fine, but as the days grew longer and the nights became shorter it kept getting harder and harder to act like nothing was wrong, as if the turbulent waves of her unconsciousness kept crashing on the rocky shore of her mind, slowly eroding the control away.

It didn't work the first time, he knew that. In fact, everyone did. They were a mess, a mistake, an unmediated disaster. He was still the same and she was still her abnormal, spunky self. Nothing had changed, but no matter how many times he went over it in his head he couldn't quite shake the feeling that they belonged together.

There wasn't some inspiring profession of love at a rain soaked bus stop, ready to board its last passenger or a last second confession at a bustling air port terminal, just as the plane was about to take off. They were never good with words and all that sappy romantic stuff. A kiss, a hug and a promise to make it better was all that was needed. They needed one another. They needed to be together. They needed to be each others futures, and no force on heaven or earth, intrinsically or extrinsically, good or evil could prove to them otherwise.

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><p><strong>My favorite part is the line comparing Sam's thoughts to an ocean tide. Love that bit.<strong>


	5. Light

**Light**

"Great," Sam muttered, after the light had rudely vacated from the room.

Freddie looked into his camera, tapped where the red light should be, and set it back on the video cart. He staggered to the wall and flipped the switch on and off, but the lights never came back.

Carly looked up. "Must be a blackout. Are we still web casting?"

"No," Freddie shook his head. His laptop was frozen, and he forced it to shutdown when it wouldn't respond off the same screen. "Everything's down."

"Well, guess that ruins this week's iCarly."

"Now what?"

Carly fished her Pear phone from her pocket and illuminated her face with a few taps on the touch screen. Both Sam and Freddie turned. "I better check on Spencer."

She made her way to the door, felt for the knob and turned.

"What are we suppose to do?" Sam looked around, the darkness filling every space.

"Just hang tight. I'll find some flashlights and bring them up. I think there are some in the kitchen." With that, she was gone, and Freddie and Sam wouldn't have known if it wasn't for the proceeding door slam.

He heard a shuffle, but no matter how hard his eyes strained in the darkness he could not see her. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find my phone."

More and more shuffles and he heard her curse as he could only imagine she stubbed her toe. Not like he could see her anyway.

"Shoot."

"What's wrong?"

"Phone's dead."

"I left mine downstairs."

"Perfect," she grumbled. "I can't stand sitting in the dark like a pair of morons."

In her own little way she perfectly verbalized their feelings, but any sense of agreement—known or otherwise—was intercepted by the dark. They could not find each other.

Another shuffle and the sound of a drawer being opened. "What are you doing now?"

"I think Carly left some candles in one of these drawers."

"Why would she put candles in here?"

"I dunno. Probably for a date." She shut one drawer and yanked out another, feeling inside. "I could've sworn they were in here."

After the third or forth try her patience paid off and with a clandestine smile held the skinny wax sticks in the air. "Found them."

"Great," he walked to the sound of her voice. "Now we have to light them."

"Right." She looked left to right, which didn't do a thing, and shrugged in defeat. Then, knocking her head for the lapse in memory reached for her back pocket. "Wait! My lighter!"

"Lighter? Why do you have a lighter? Wait. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"Smart boy."

He could tell she was having problems. Judging by her sighs and grunts, she was probably making an ill attempt to balance two candlesticks upright between her fingers while using her other hand to spark the lighter. He heard the grind of the lighter's wheel attempting to produce a flame, but no more than a few short-lived sparks were made.

He stomped over to her. "Here—let me."

"No!" she retreated. "I can do it!"

"Sam, come on!"

"No!" Her hands pinned against her chest like their contents held a valuable treasure. The candles mashed between them, like the filling of an odd sandwich, and were wrestled back and forth, to and fro against their bodies vying for control.

"Let go!" she shouted.

"No! You!"

"You!"

Then there was light. A small tenuous flame sputtered out from their madness, flickering in the darkness, casting long overly exaggerated shadows across the room. They had stopped fighting, they had stopped yelling and their eyes slowly dropped to a pair of interlocking hands holding between them the only semblance of light and warmth in the room.

Freddie looked up from the wavering flame and into her eyes—eyes that never looked so deep, blue and meaningful before. The inherent anger usually behind them had vanished and when he peered deeper he could see how unbelievably beautiful they were, and cursed himself for just realizing it now.

Their long narrow shadows angled upon the walls with just a tiny vague space separating them. They swayed back and forth to the will of the small flame until the lighter was dropped and the flame was suddenly extinguished.

The space between them slowly disappeared until the light reflected only one singular adjoined silhouette, held together as one elegant silent shadow.

That is, of course, if there was still any light left in the room.

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><p>From the mind of <strong>pigwiz<strong>... not exactly your prompt verbatim but I went with a variation. Hope you liked.


	6. Roger

**Roger**

Red Leader to Red Five. Red Leader to Red Five. Come in.

_Silence_

Red Leader to Red Five. Red Leader to Red Five. Do you read me?

_Silence_

Sam! You promised!

Fine ... I'm here. What do you want, Benson?

Don't use real names.

Why?

Because we're suppose to be speaking in code.

Why? Do the FBI have the line tapped?

It defeats the purpose of secrecy if we don't speak in code.

No. You wanted to speak in code. I wanted to text like normal people!

We don't have time. I need a status update on the Target. Over.

Carly's in the ladies room. Movie finished ten minutes ago.

I told you. The apartment is called the 'Nest,' and Carly's referred to as the 'Target.' Got it?

Fine ... Is the Nest, uh, ready for reception yet?

What?

Are you done decorating? _static_ Geez! You don't even get your own code words.

Yes. We're almost done. Target will be pleasantly surprised.

Better be. You only graduate from college once.

Hush. Ex nay on the formal anguage lay.

Shove it, Red Liter! We'll be there in a bit.

ETA?

What?

ETA ... it means estimate time of arrival.

I know what it means. We'll get there when we get there.

Sam!

Signing off now, Red Sleeper. Roger.

Wait? What?

Now what's the problem? Carly ... I mean, the Target should be out any second. Roger.

You did it again. You don't say Roger at the beginning of a message.

Sure I do. Roger.

No! That's not how it works. Roger means I heard you. You can't say Roger because I haven't acknowledged your message yet.

Roger.

There. That's better. I'll check back in five.

That won't be necessary, Red Popper.

What do you mean?

I lied.

You what?

Target's been listening to us the entire time. We're coming up the elevator.

Sam! You didn't!

Afraid I did. You've got ten seconds, Red Peeper.

Red Alert! Red Alert! Our operation's been compromised!

Damn right. Roger.

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><p>suggested by <strong>pigwiz<strong>


	7. Rain

**Rain**

It always rains in Seattle . . . always. Sometimes the early morning mist is just thick enough to fog car windows and make grass slippery. Other times it drizzles off and on, slowly morphing dirt into mud. Mostly, though, it pours. Hard.

It's like that now. The rain comes in sheets, thrown sideways by the whip of the wind, pounding against the asphalt and concrete monsters lining the drenched north western skyline. It falls from the massive clouds. Dark, ominous ones crowd the entire sky hanging stagnant and unmovable.

The rain steals the sun away, kidnapped behind all those heavy clouds bunching high above his city.

He taps on his Pear Phone to active a weather app. A single box appears on the screen labeled _enter zip code_. He does, three times. One for Southern California, another for Honolulu and the last for Florida.

Sunny. Warm. Not a drop in sight. Every single one. A lowly sigh and he tosses his phone to his bed.

It's been like this for months. The entire city seems to have adopted the storm into their whole lifestyle. Everyone has rain boots, umbrellas too. Even him, as he peers at them stacked by his door over a small puddle. He hates how each umbrella can't be some monotonous black or blue. Instead, walking down the streets feels like waiting in a grotesque river of fuchsia, lime and tangerine colored half bubbles, overcrowding the sidewalk.

Tiny water drops tap his window pane, just light enough to let him never forget they're there, and he watches them run down the glass, as if it were weeping. He spends most of his days like this now, sitting alone in his room. There's nothing left to do courtesy of the rain. His Mother rarely lets him leave the house anymore. All he does is watch TV, go online and commute to and fro to the Shay's apartment, and aside from their weekly webcasts proves just as boring.

Everything is just as it should be. Dull. Grey. Monotonous. Boring.

The door flings open without so much as a knock and she stumbles inside, completely soaked. She's drenched from head to toe, blond curly strands of hair stick to her rosy cheeks, heavy with the weight they hold. She must have carried half the storm inside with her.

"Sam?"

"What?" she blurts automatically, like her entrance had been ordinary.

He lifts from his bed. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you what's going on . . . they're not even here!"

"Who isn't?"

She kicks off her shoes one by one, and they make a loud thud as they hit the opposing wall. "Carly's not home. Spencer either. I walked all the way over here and they're not freakin' here!"

"You walked here?"

"No! I took my hover craft!"

"It's pouring out there!" He heads to his bathroom, rummages through the closet and tosses her a towel. "Why didn't you text me? I would've picked you up."

Immediately, she buries her face in the towel and pats herself down. It doesn't do much good. The towel is soaked in minutes, and she casually casts it aside, missing the hamper by a good four feet. She growls, but he can't tell if it's because she missed the obvious or of sheer frustration. Sam automatically holds the tally of making a fuss out of irrelevant things but trekking a good seven miles in a rain storm clearly isn't one of them.

In the fray, a small smile slithers through his once rigid countenance. Through his imagination comes a drenched Sam Puckett trudging down the Seattle city streets, growing more angry with every step she takes. She doesn't have rain boots, nor an umbrella and he can imagine her telling the police to piss off when they stop her and ask her to go home. This girl with the most intangible sense of fearlessness coupled with absolutely no common sense now stands before him over a dirty pool of water in desperate need of entertainment. That makes two of them.

"Do you still have the spare key to their place?"

"Uh ... not sure."

"No matter. Let's just break in. I've done it before."

He laughs. "Sure, let's go. You can borrow some of Carly's clothes. But we have to straighten the place up a little though, deal?"

"Fine, but only if we raid their fridge.

He smiles again. Rainstorms. Drenched clothing. Breaking and entering.

Yup. Everything is just as it should be.


	8. Jealous

**Jealous**

"Wait! Stop!"

She didn't listen. Instead, she ran the opposite way and stormed out the door with him just behind. He reached for her shoulder and one twist suddenly brought them face to face, with tears eagerly brimming her sunken eyes.

He expected many things. Surprise. Shock. But not tears.

"Look. I'm sorry you saw that back there. We need to work on our tact."

Her answer was a runny sob, as she wiped the sadness away.

"What's going on? Why are you crying?"

What she saw just a mere five seconds ago had triggered this wave of emotion. Her two best friends in each others arms, locked in a full make out session.

"Are you guys back together?"

"Yeah, I guess we are," he shrugged. "I kinda just happened. I'm sorry we didn't tell you." This didn't make sense. She had seen them kiss before. She had seen them together before. Her reaction wasn't making any sense. He was missing something . . . something important. It was then another thought dawned on him. "Are you jealous?"

She turned away, covering the heat pressing behind her eyes. But she didn't need to answer the question. No answer, after all, is still an answer.

"Are you?"

Another question answered by silence.

"What the hell, Carly?" he yelled unexpectedly. "You don't get to be jealous!" And before she could reply he continued. "I waited! I waited years for you! For you to see me! And now just because Sam and I are back together you suddenly like me now?"

"I . . ."

"You had plenty of time! What, do you, like, hate us now?"

"No! It's not like that!"

"What is it then!"

She dug down deep, deeper than she ever thought she was able to reach. And after all the sifting and searching was done, she finally scrounged up enough courage to say something aloud she never said aloud before.

"I want what you have, Freddie."

Now it was his turn to be quiet.

"I don't know what it is really, but you compliment each other _so_ well. You drive each other crazy but still find a way to make it work. You make each other laugh, and smile and angry and . . . loved. And with every passing day, and every passing date, and every passing boy who breaks my heart, I believe less and less that I'll find it." She stopped to cry and the tears ran freely off her chin. "What about me? What about me?"

He took her in an embrace, and she let him, and as soon as Sam came in from the other room she did as well, with Freddie hugging her from behind.

They knew she would find what she was looking for. And if she didn't, she would at least have the love of her two best friends, reassuring her everything was going to be fine.

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><p><strong>Why isn't Carly featured more in Seddie fics? She's awesome.<strong>


	9. Jeans

**Jeans**

She looked him up and down, a judgment forming in her mind the second she was done.

"I don't like it," she said immediately. "Those jeans don't go with the shirt."

Freddie lifted up his shirt slightly so his pants were entirely visible. "What's wrong with them?"

Marissa pinched her eyebrows together, eying the noticeable fade on the knees, the frayed stitching in the seems and cuffs, and the tiny gash near the pockets. His jeans were old, tattered... fine garb for a hobo. Just one of these infractions could have easily sent her through the roof, all three were truly testing her patience.

"Benson's don't dress like slobs, Freddie. Besides, they don't go with the brand new shirt I bought for you."

He didn't have to be reminded. It wasn't like he hated the normal collar/plaid shirt combination she bought for him, seemingly in bulk, but this shirt hadn't even been broken into yet. The creases were still painfully obvious, the collar was over starched, and the tag was still hanging from the sleeve.

"Fine. I'll just get a different shirt."

"Unacceptable."

"Mom," he groaned. "I'm not ten years old anymore. I'm old enough to pick my outfit for school now."

"Well, clearly you're not. No son of mine is going to leave the house in those jeans. I didn't buy those for you. Where did you get those anyway?

Where indeed. His mouth refused to budge on the answer, and instead produced a stubborn shrug as he stomped to his dresser, pulled out a drawer and dug for another shirt.

"Freddie!"

He didn't care. He was wearing these jeans. Period. And if any reasonable clash from his conscious intervened, begging him to listen to his Mother, an old memory was shoved in the fore of his mind. It was a memory of a certain blond girl, fumbling with a badly wrapped present on their last date, swearing to him she didn't shop lift it or just get it last minute. Neither was true. But this was: it was the last good thing she gave him.

Sensible or not, he was wearing these jeans.


	10. Goodbye

**Goodbye  
><strong>

The last bell rang, signifying school was indeed over. To Sam it was the shrillest, loudest, most sweetest noise in the world. Not only did this mean she didn't have to listen to boring teachers, do tedious classwork and eat God-awful cafeteria food, it was the _end_ of it all.

This was the last day of school. 12th grade was over. Life was good.

She looked at her empty, naked locker just as it was the first day of school. She had torn off the magazine cut outs featuring bacon, ham and various salted cured meats. Gone were the crock pots, mini grills and microwaves, still dripping the remnants of a once delectable in-between-class snack. Even the school books were taken out, dusty and unopened as the day they were checked out to her. She smiled to herself.

The rusty hinge squealed as the locker door swung shut and sent an echoing crash down the tile hallway.

"There it is."

Freddie had somehow appeared behind her, caring a box of his own, filled with the guts of his own locker.

"There what is?" She didn't wait for an answer, instead she picked up her small box of stuff, held it against her chest and walked away. Freddie hurried his steps after her and the two walked side by side down the long tile Ridgeway hall.

"Did you say all your goodbyes?"

"Nope," she murmured, and if he had looked, would have seen her scowl.

Freddie tilted his head her way. "Why not?"

"I hate goodbyes."

He didn't offer a retort. Instead of analyzing yet another Sam Puckett axiom, a sure-fire way to enrage the girl, decided to offer his side of the question. "I mean, we're parting ways with people we've known the majority of our lives. Sure there's email, Splashface and Twitter but it's not the same. Most of these people we'll never see again."

She didn't say a thing. A straight still expression was all that was shown.

"I said goodbye to everyone: the jocks, the emo kids, my av club, even Principal Franklin and most of the teachers. Things got really emotional. A lot of people cried..."

His sentence sputtered in a realization. It was only then did he know what was bothering her. She didn't hate goodbyes, not really. She hated being left behind. She hated the emptiness that remained. She hated the emotion it can force out of her. But more importantly, she hated feeling vulnerable and exposed, like a proper goodbye does.

They made it to the door. In front of them was the empty parking lot containing Freddie's car, the only one left in the whole place. Together they peered back into the school one last time and went down the steps toward his vehicle.

"I'm not saying goodbye to you, ya know."

"Shaddup, Freddie."

He continued regardless. "You won't be one of them. The ones I'll only see at reunions and exchange meaningless messages on the internet with."

"Stop talking."

"You mean more to me than that."

"I'll break your arm."

He reached out and touched her shoulder, in a way she had to stop. Just to let her know he cared, just to let her know she would never be alone, just to let her know she didn't have to worry, just to let her know she was special and loved, he drew her in with a one-armed hug and kissed her on the forehead. He left her skin just quick enough to see a single tear escape her shimmering blue eyes and a smile broken through all the mounds of apathy and repressed sadness.

"There it is."

"There what is?" she whispered back.

"Your smile," he said warmly, and made her smile once more.


End file.
